Secret Keeper
by Zentauria
Summary: The whole Rivera clan knew about the secret passion of their youngest member. Most of the time, they chose to ignore it. Miguel stumbled along, collided with his familia every now and then. But at least he wasn't a liar.
1. Not Like The Rest

**Yeah, don't ask me why I did this. I just... do lots of things. Because I can.  
**

 **Sooo... this is going to be a series of loosely connected one-shots. Mostly because one-shots mean less commitment than multi-chapter stories, and because I wanted to do something with a smaller word count. (Not that a small word count is ever going to happen with me, but here's to hoping!)**

* * *

 _Not Like The Rest_

* * *

 _You don't keep secrets from your family._

It's one of those basic principles Miguel grew up with. And he normally wouldn't have had trouble with that. He was an honest boy. He talked a lot, even when no one was listening, and his family relied on him to look after the sadly unresponsive mamá Coco pretty much from the get-go. It never bothered him, especially with the added bonus of being exempted from chores. He loved his mamá Coco with all his heart, and he talked and talked and talked to her for hours on end.

However, there were two things he learned to shut up about at the tender age of four: music, his great-great-grandfather, and especially his musician great-great-grandfather.

Well, maybe that counted as three things.

It was an open secret that Miguel loved music. He did an awful job at hiding the fact. Someone always caught him humming or singing absentmindedly, or sneaking off to browse one of the local Ernesto de la Cruz fan shops. Sometimes, he came home with a certain spring in his step, and everybody knew he'd been out dancing. Especially Rosa would get all nasty on those days, which Miguel didn't pay much heed to until he caught her studying instructions on making dancing shoes. He was eight. She was nine. They agreed right then and there that they'd never tell on each other, though it kept neither from being smug when the other was subjected to a tirade.

Who, as it happened, was usually Miguel. Rosa's secret dancing shoe sessions blew up once, and were never heard of again. Miguel didn't understand how it was possible for his prima to hide her dancing so well. Had he been in her place, he would have danced and skipped and hopped from anywhere to everywhere, and never stopped.

Rosa just... _didn't_.

Most of the time, the family pretended that Miguel's passion for music didn't exist. As if it would go away if they ignored it for long enough. But Miguel grew up, and his love for music grew with him.

Back when Miguel was still a second-grader, he thought his family was crazy. In fourth grade however, he started wondering if it was _him_. He certainly didn't feel like the crazy one, but there was no denying that he was _different_. He couldn't _pretend_ the way Rosa did. It wasn't in his nature to be shy about his emotions. It wasn't in his nature to keep secrets.

And it certainly wasn't in his nature to hate music.

He tried to change. He tried to unlove music, he really did. But he couldn't. His head was full of melodies, and he exploded when he didn't let them out. He'd never been the most patient boy to begin with, and the music droughts only left him even more irritable, even more prone to snapping at the people around him.

In a way, his family was right. Music was trouble. But only because they made it so! Yes, Miguel had heard it – the story of the walk-away musician of his great-great-grandfather. Heck, one of the songs rocking his mind was a half-finished ballad about the whole thing! It drove him crazy at times that he couldn't fill the blanks where his great-great-grandfather was supposed to be. He never seemed to find something satisfactory to make up.

He tried asking questions, sometimes. But the only one to actually remember the-musician-who-can't-be-named was his mamá Coco. And even _she_ only remembered that she _had_ a father. She couldn't share his stories the way they shared the story of mamá Imelda and her shoes.

It was a hassle – there were no two ways about it. Between his overactive mind and the constant "No music!", Miguel couldn't seem to catch a break. Maybe it was a curse after all, even though he wasn't sure what he did to deserve it.

Okay, he didn't always eat his vegetables. But that wasn't worth ruining his life, right?


	2. First Time Out

_First Time Out_

* * *

School mornings were always weird. Alone in the classroom, Miguel had folded his arms on the tabletop and pillowed his head in them. Now he was listening to the silence. Or rather his mind using said silence as an excuse to music it up.

 _Recuérdame, si mi guitarra oyes llorar..._

It was only the fragment of a song, and it had kept him up all night. Had he not been so exhausted, Miguel might have cried into his sweater right then and there.

He didn't mean to catch it. He only happened to be pushed in front of the radio when he went to the bakery the day before, and his mamá had dragged him away immediately. But the damage had been done. Something had clicked inside him, and it killed him that he didn't know the rest of the song. It felt like whatever was missing from it was missing from his very being.

Miguel was wrenched from his misery by the trampling of feet in front of the door. His classmates were returning from recess, and Miguel, not wanting to be caught sulking, straightened and slapped his cheeks. It did little to get those maddening sounds out of his head, but at least it woke him up somewhat and he felt presentable enough to interact with his seat neighbor. His name was Tito, and he was a stoutly built Afro-Mexican with curly hair and an impish grin. Miguel might or mightn't have been admiring him a little.

"Hey, Miguel! Where have you been? You totally missed Natalia trying to clear the monkey bars!" the boy babbled away. Miguel glanced across the room at the ruffled girl Tito was talking about. She'd been trying to clear the monkey bars since Monday, and she was, quite frankly, awful.

"Did she manage?"

"What do you think?"

"She didn't." It was only then that Miguel realized how mean that sounded, and he hurried along: "¿Oye, Tito?"

"¿Sí?"

Miguel wrung his hands nervously. His abuelita was _so_ going to kill him! "There was this song yesterday on the radio... And it went like this..." He drummed out the rhythm with his fingers and sang the part of the lyrics he remembered. The wooden clopping of the table was a far cry from the beauty in his mind, but Tito's eyes grew wider and wider. Miguel wasn't sure what it meant. "Do you know it?" he asked, and Tito finally snapped out of his shock.

He blinked incredulously. "You don't know? Oh, right, you're a Rivera... Well, everyone knows this song. Have you ever seen the statue in Mariachi Plaza?"

Miguel tilted his head, pondering. Indeed, there was a vague memory. "You mean the guitar man?"

Tito was stunned into silence for a moment, then he started snorting and doubling over his desk with laughter. "¡Ay, Miguel! Only a Rivera would call Ernesto de la Cruz 'guitar man'!"

"It's not my fault!" Miguel protested. "C'mon, tell me!"

A clap rang out, followed by an "Alright, children! Please calm down, class is starting!"

Tito pulled himself together. "I'll tell you later."

* * *

Tito tried lending Miguel an album. Miguel pointed out that he didn't have a CD player, and that his abuelita would go berserk if she ever found one in the house. Or a music album, for that matter. Tito shook his head in disbelief and suggested they go to Mariachi Plaza instead. They could ask one of the musicians there to perform _Recuérdame_ for them. Miguel had his misgivings about the idea, but found himself saying yes anyway. He needed this song fragment to leave him alone, and why would his family show up in Mariachi Plaza to catch him? They avoided the place like the plague. Besides, he _really_ wanted to go!

He never regretted it. Well, he did regret getting caught leaving Mariachi Plaza. He did regret losing Tito over his abuelita's wrath. But he never regretted the trip itself, and he made _many many_ more. Mariachi Plaza instantly became his favorite place, and no amount of scolding and chancla-waving changed it.

Miguel was an Ernesto de la Cruz fan now – his very first secret. And he was ever so glad when he got roped into shoe shining. It gave him an excuse to be out and about every day without anyone asking questions. In fact, his family very much approved of his zeal, believing he finally found his love for shoes.

It made him uncomfortable whenever his father said how proud he was. Or when his abuelita gave him instructions on the perfect shoe shining technique, and he realized afterwards that he didn't remember a single word of it because he tuned out halfway.

He never corrected them. No matter how much his instincts screamed at him to tell the truth, he kept his mouth shut. What choice did he have?

* * *

 **I hope I didn't just commit cultural appropriation. Isn't it paradox how people cry for more diversity these days while making it such a gosh darn _minefield_ at the same time?!**


	3. Sometimes, It Only Takes A Second

**Remember my comment about being unable to keep stuff short?**

* * *

 _Sometimes, It Only Takes A Second_

* * *

Miguel already knew when he was four that he wanted to play an instrument, and he tried whatever he got his hands on. Which wasn't much, unfortunately – Santa Cecilia had quite a bunch of instrument makers, but they wouldn't be caught dead handing the anti-music clan's youngest their work. The family reputation preceded Miguel wherever he went, and he had to make do with more mundane things. Sticks, stones, bottles, tin cups. Fence posts, cutlery. He found out that leaves could be used as flutes, but the banana leaf he snuck from abuelita's stash of tamal ingredients was _impossible_ to play and didn't even sound pleasant.

It was only three years later that he actually settled for the guitar, but the problem of getting one remained. So he decided to build one himself... _somehow_.

First, he needed a place to do it. And that certainly wasn't the family workshop. He needed material, too. And some idea what kind of structure a guitar actually was. He'd never really thought about that, either.

Miguel realized it was going to be hard. It might take him years.

But his mind was made. He wanted – no, he _needed_ – a guitar, so a guitar he was going to get! Even if it took him until he was old and wrinkled!

Since getting a good look at a guitar seemed like the easiest place to start, Miguel decided to use his school breaks to visit the school's music room. It contained a few of them, in various sizes and shapes, but he pretty much laser-focused on the acoustic guitar. Of course he didn't know the term 'acoustic', or any other terms. But he knew he wanted the same guitar as his idol, Ernesto de la Cruz, and that was a kind of instrument he'd recognize anywhere.

* * *

It was easy enough. Since the Tito-incident, Miguel didn't have any attachments to keep track of. No one minded his presence, but no one missed him, either.

 _I might as well be a ghost_ , he mused one day as he slipped into the empty room and scrambled up a desk to pluck a guitar from the wall. Gently, almost reverently, he brushed his fingertips over the strings, feeling the cool metal on his skin. He strummed them experimentally, then shook his head forcefully and lay the guitar down on a desk. No distractions! He was three weeks into his project, and he hadn't even come around counting the frets yet!

Miguel walked over to a broken heater and reached behind it. It wasn't the cleanest of places, but he figured he'd be better off hiding his notes in school rather than at home. Someone might find them, and he'd have to start all over again. Not to mention the thunderstorm that would be unleashed upon him... Even though he'd gotten rather desensitized to the scoldings by now, there was no need to stir up an unnecessary fuss.

He counted the frets and added them to his notes. He slapped himself for leaving his ruler in the classroom. He picked at the strings a little more until he heard people in the hallway, then slapped himself _again_ for forgetting the time _again_ , and hurried to tidy up the room. He stored his notes back behind the heater and climbed up his desk to hook the guitar to the wall. When he hopped back down, however, his foot hit something hard and round. The object rolled straight from underneath him, and before he knew it, he was falling.

His scream was cut off when his head connected with the edge of the desk with a sickening crack. Pain seared through his skull. Suddenly he was curled up on the floor and crying his eyes out, aware of nothing but the paralyzing pain.

* * *

"Sí... Sí... Sí, por favor."

Miguel groaned. His head was throbbing, there was a terrible ringing in his ears and when he blinked, the light stung his eyes. But at least he was somewhat back in touch with the world.

A screeching sound pierced through the haze posing as his senses, making the headache shoot through the roof. He recognized it as a chair being pushed back.

"Miguel!" That was señora Arreola, the school's secretary. "Miguel, can you hear me?"

Instead of answering, Miguel let out another groan and attempted to sit up. It was a stupid idea, and punishment followed swiftly. The headache spiked once more and a wave of nausea washed over him, leaving him dizzy and turning his limbs into jelly. But before he crashed back down, an arm wrapped around his shoulders and held him steady.

"Easy there, muchacho."

The dizziness faded, and Miguel could finally sit by himself. "What happened?" he croaked out. His voice sounded oddly distant, but he was too drained to care.

"I hoped you could tell me. But it's okay, we can worry about that later," señora Arreola murmured comfortingly. "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible." Summoning all his strength, Miguel lifted his hands to rub his eyes. "Can you turn off the light, please?"

"Of course."

Miguel heard the curtains being drawn shut, and this time, he could keep his eyes open. It was still a little too bright and he promptly teared up, but it was bearable. Señora Arreola returned with a glass of water, and the sensation was such pure bliss that Miguel downed it one gulp.

"Not so fast!" señora Arreola scolded, but she went to get him another glass anyway. In the meantime, Miguel checked his surroundings. He wasn't surprised to find himself in the secretary's office. He was sitting on the floor, on a mat someone apparently fetched from the gym and even made it fit into the tiny space between the desk and the wall.

It finally registered with him that he had fainted. The thought scared him. He'd fallen down a tree before and it had hurt like hell, but the ground had been covered in grass and his back had taken the brunt of the fall. He didn't pass out.

 _What happened?_

It took another glass of water and an alarmingly long time for Miguel's brain to yield the info he wanted. He told señora Arreola that he remembered slipping on something, and now that the headache had abated somewhat, he could feel his ankle.

Señora Arreola helped him remove his shoe and examined his foot. "Looks like you got lucky. Your boots must have saved you from twisting your ankle."

Miguel muttered something about shoemakers that didn't quite make sense even to himself. With the damage assessed and his confusion cleared up, there was nothing he wanted more than go back to sleep. Not having to deal with the pain, the light and the noise beeping away at his eardrums.

"No, Miguel! Stay with me, muchacho!" señora Arreola coaxed. Miguel wasn't sure why it mattered, but he fought to keep his eyes open anyway. "Try not to fall asleep until your family picks you up. They'll take you to a doctor."

Miguel nodded dutifully and shifted until he leaned against the wall. Señora Arreola brought him yet another glass of water, which he blinked at owlishly. For a moment there, he'd forgotten its purpose. Then he shrugged mentally and used the glass to cool his ankle before draining it.

It wasn't long after that the door opened and abuelita stormed into the office. "What were you thinking?!"

Too loud. Pain split Miguel's head into two and he clamped his hands over his ears, eyes screwed shut and tears streaming uncontrollably from the eyelids.

"¡Mamá!"

"¡Señora, please!"

There was no need for placation. As soon as she saw Miguel clamming up, Elena switched tack. Disregarding her old bones, she knelt beside her grandson and caressed his wet cheek.

"It's okay, mijo. Your family is here."

Blindly, Miguel reached out and wrapped his arms around his abuelita. "I can't see!" he sobbed into her shoulder. "And loud noise hurts so much. What if I can never enter the workshop again?" _What if I can never go to Mariachi Plaza again?_

"Sh, calm down, mijo," abuelita soothed, stroking Miguel's back. "You'll be fine. We'll take you to señor Castro, and then you can go home and rest. And your abuelita makes you your favorite tamales. ¿Qué te parece?"

"Bien," Miguel mumbled. He pulled away and wiped his eyes. A hand clasped around his arm, and for the first time, Miguel noticed Enrique looking down at him with concern.

"Papá." Miguel tried to stand. He was dizzy and his knees were shaky, and he clung to his father to keep himself upright.

Enrique was more than willing to offer support. He gave his son a tight hug and whispered, "You'll be okay, mijo. We'll do everything it takes."

Miguel nodded against his papá's stomach. Suddenly, he felt himself being grabbed beneath the arms and lifted onto Enrique's back. He looked around perplexedly and spotted señora Arreola smiling encouragingly.

"Hang in there, muchacho! ¡Hasta el lunes!"

She seemed so sure he'd be back to school by Monday, Miguel couldn't help believing her. He smiled gratefully. "Hasta el lunes, señora."

"Thank you for notifying us," Elena said, and señora Arreola nodded.

"Of course." She opened the door for them, and the brightness of the hallway assaulted Miguel's eyes. He buried his face in Enrique's neck when he heard his abuelita snarl, "You!"

"I'm sorry, señora!"

Miguel's head snapped up. The sunlight streaming through the windows forced him to narrow his barely dried eyes and set them watering again, but there was no mistaking the colorful blob straight ahead.

"I heard Miguel might have a concussion," Tito defended his appearance. Miguel didn't have time to wonder what on earth a concussion was before his amigo-blob started waving another blob. "My sister had one once, and she got real sensitive to light for a couple weeks, so I thought..."

It seemed like abuelita allowed Tito to move closer, and the small blob was placed on Miguel's head. The effect was instant, and with profound relief, Miguel adjusted the visor of his new baseball cap. He wiped his eyes and grinned.

"Gracias, Tito."

"No problem, Miguel! Well then, I need to get back to class. ¡Que te mejores!"

"See you!"

Then he was gone, and Miguel was left with a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest. Maybe they could still salvage their friendship. It was sad that it took him hitting his head and pass out to make it happen, but it was _something_. Not to mention that Miguel couldn't remember the last time his family had taken care of their black sheep like this.

He nuzzled deep into the crook of his papá's neck, jabbing him only a teeny tiny bit with his visor.

Ay, he loved his family!

* * *

Miguel learned that his brain usually floated around in some sort of brain aquarium inside his head. A concussion happened when the brain smashed against the skull because of some outside force. Right now, his brain was messing up the signals from the rest of his body, and that was why his ears rang and eyes stung, and why he got dizzy real fast.

He wasn't going to go back to school by Monday. Señor Castro told him to stay in bed for this week and the next, and come back if he was still feeling unwell. Miguel nodded along, trying to keep everything in mind. But as soon as the three Riveras were back in the family truck, he was out like a light.

He didn't wake again until well after midnight. But that was fine with him, because night meant silence and darkness. Sweet, glorious darkness!

He felt a lot better. Alright, he still felt like someone took papá Franco's hammer and dropped it on his head, but the tinnitus was gone and his strength had returned. And he was hungry!

He pushed back his blanket, realizing quickly that he wasn't in his bed. The moonlight seeping through the curtains revealed his seating place to be a mattress on the floor, with the footboard of a bed to the left and a chest to the right. He was in mamá Coco's room, and he had to admit that it made sense. The room he shared with his parents would be killing him in the morning, starting with that torture device going by the name of _alarm clock_.

Miguel spied a plate stacked with tamales on top of the chest. His face brightened and he carefully placed the plate in his lap – abuelita kept her promises, and Miguel enjoyed his midnight snack to the fullest. However, he had no idea what to do with the rest of the night. It seemed like the ideal opportunity to get some composing done, but his stash of paper was in a drawer in his room and when he tried to stand, there was only so much he could do to muffle his cries. He wasn't going to leave this bed any time soon, not without help.

He cursed under his breath and pulled the blanket over his head. Stupid concussion! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

* * *

The days that followed were those that Miguel would come to remember as _The Time When Miguel Rivera Was Just Another Word For Idiot_. There were certainly worse things than being doted on by his abuelita and not being teased by his primos for a change. On the flip side, however, he couldn't decide what was the most awful: the pain, the fact that he could barely see even _with_ Tito's cap, the prolonged inactivity or the absence of music. After two days, he was cranky, and from there he made bounding strides towards _insufferable_. He snapped at the slightest of noises. He refused to eat. When his father brought him some shoelaces and a basket of unfinished shoes to busy his hands with, Miguel got so bored that he threaded them upside down. Father and son had a fight about whether or not Miguel was deliberately trying to sabotage the business, which Enrique came out of with a bunch of messed-up shoes and Miguel with a messed-up head and a sub-blanket meltdown. (Incidentally, tía Gloria liked the look and suggested to sell the shoes anyway. Without knowing it, Miguel set the brief but lucrative trend of toe-tied laces.)

He managed to outgrump his pregnant tía. Even around mamá Coco he could only barely keep himself under control, and it all culminated when he was deemed fit enough for the great confrontation.

The day had started so nice: Miguel could get up on his own and walk around without stumbling. He could eat breakfast with his family, and he could even slip away for a trip to Mariachi Plaza. Which he had to cut short because his head protested after a while, but it was just what he needed to cleanse himself from the frustrations of the past days.

And then dinner came. Miguel was happily munching away on his tomato rice, not suspecting any evil to come his way, when abuelita spoke the dreadful words: "Miguel? We need to talk."

"¿Sí?"

"When señora Arreola called us to pick you up, she told me that one of the teachers found you in the music room."

All eyes were on Miguel now. The boy swallowed – in fact, he almost choked. He had hoped that the secretary forgot to mention that little detail. Evidently, she didn't, and Miguel was about to count the cost.

"I was just–!" he began, his words as jumbled as his mind. What could he say? That he was in the music room by accident?

As if anyone would buy that.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Miguel closed his eyes and hung his head. He got nothing. "I was just curious."

"And look where it got you!" tío Berto butted in.

Tía Gloria quickly followed up, "It could have killed you!"

"You know better than to go anywhere near that cursed room!" That was abuelita again, and suddenly everyone was talking over each other.

It was too much for Miguel. He hunched into his shoulders and covered his ears. "It didn't kill me, okay?!" he yelled over the clamor. "It doesn't kill _all the freaking people of México!_ If you believe music to be such a horror, why do we live in Santa Cecilia anyway?! Why don't we just pack up and move to the middle of freaking _nowhere_?!"

Silence. Miguel's family stared at him with varying degrees of shock on their faces. Except for mamá Coco, who didn't seem quite there, but abuelita was radiating enough rage for two. Miguel wasn't hungry anymore; he pushed back his chair and fled the room as quickly as his short legs would allow.

He could hear his mamá call out for him, but he didn't listen. Furiously swiping at his eyes and with no idea where to go, Miguel left the family hacienda behind and criss-crossed the streets of his hometown. The town named after the very patroness of music herself, the town that gave rise to the greatest musician of all time. It was perfect. Why couldn't he enjoy it? What did he do to deserve being born into the _Rivera clan_ of all clans?

Miguel's pity party was interrupted by a whine. He looked around, trying to localize the sound. The whine came again. It sounded like a dog... like a dog in pain.

Miguel wiped his eyes one last time, padded into the alleyway he identified as the source of the noise and kicked at an upturned trash can. It toppled with a nasty clang that set his ears ringing, and a young Xolo dog appeared underneath. It gave a screechy bark and tried to stand up, but its right hind paw buckled and it fell back down, yelping helplessly.

Miguel knelt down to examine the paw. His nose wrinkled in disgust when he discovered a rusty razor blade wedged into the dog's flesh. He couldn't tell whether it had been put there on purpose, or if it had been only the trash can. Either way, someone actively tried to kill this poor creature and couldn't even be bothered to do it properly.

Miguel grabbed the dog's hind leg to keep it still. "Alright, perrito. This is gonna hurt a little."

The dog looked at Miguel with eyes full of trust, or maybe it was just the boy's imagination. Miguel found that the animal looked kinda dumb, but also oddly cute. He took a deep breath and yanked at the razor, half-expecting to get bitten. But the dog only yowled and kicked a little. Miguel tossed the blade into the trash can and got up to reposition the thing.

"Gotta be more careful, perrito," he told the dog absently. When he knelt back down to scratch the dog's hairless ears, it reared up to lick his face.

"Ew! C'mon, that's gross!" Miguel wiped his cheek with his sleeve, realizing only then that he had some grains of tomato rice stuck to it. "Ah, I see. You only wanted my dinner, eh, perrito?"

The dog barked. Miguel chuckled and collected the rice off his sleeve for the dog to lick from his hand. "Ay, Dios mío... I bet you're hungry, being stuck like this. I couldn't move from the spot either the last couple days. It's awful. But at least I had my family to take care of me."

The dog whimpered, and Miguel sighed. "You're right, I'm stupid. They're unbearable sometimes, but they're still my family. They're probably worried. I better haul my butt back home and apologize."

The dog barked again, and Miguel couldn't help thinking that it tried to talk to him. Smiling, he patted the animal one last time and stood. "Stay safe, perrito! I'll bring you a cookie tomorrow."

The dog seemed happy to hear that. Miguel laughed, then unglued himself from the spot. He was reluctant to leave the dog behind, but he had places to be.

Little did he know that this very dog was to become his second secret – and a part of something so much bigger.


	4. Tree Conquerors

**Yup, I'm still here. Melting away, but still in existence!**

* * *

 _Tree Conquerors_

* * *

Miguel figured he'd never hear the end of it. On the Thursday after the Xolo incident, Tito showed up at the zapatería to get him up to speed on school matters, and he mentioned how they found out that the thing Miguel slipped on was a xylophone mallet. Someone hadn't been as thorough as they should have been when tidying up, so now everyone was more careful to ensure something like that didn't happen again.

While at least his mamá Luisa was satisfied with the information, Miguel was a hair's breadth away from pulling an abuelita and throwing his shoe at whatever tool with the gall to exist in the general vicinity. He'd been _just_ off the hook, and now someone was bound to put him through the grinder all over again!

Or not. Because it suddenly was all the mallet's fault. Its evil musical intentions made it lie in wait for a poor sap to bestow a concussion upon... Miguel honestly wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

He settled for rolling his eyes and dragging Tito across the yard into the common room. "I'm sorry my family are such weirdos."

Tito chuckled awkwardly. "I'm just glad I didn't get the chancla."

Miguel could only wince in response. "Yeah... That's real brave of you, coming into the Rivera den for me."

"Well, I can hardly abandon you to señor Guiterrez without your homework," Tito declared, beaming from ear to ear. "Good to see you up and about again!"

Miguel smiled, and Tito started raiding his school bag. "So, we wrote this test on meters and centimeters yesterday. I think I was pretty good."

"I'm sure you were! You love numbers!" Miguel laughed. But speaking of love, he glanced around to make sure no one was nearby. "So, what about music class?"

But Tito shook his head. "Not gonna happen, de la Cruz. I'm planning to walk out of here unhurt."

"Aww, come on!" Miguel whined, dramatically waving his arms. He wasn't too serious about it, though. He understood Tito's standpoint all too well. "Alright then," he sighed and stood up from his chair. "I'll go get my things. And check on mamá Coco."

* * *

A few minutes later, the two boys were engrossed in Tito's notes. At some point, Elena poked her head in to make sure nothing out of the ordinary was going on, but the only thing she needed to admonish Miguel about was chewing his pen apart.

Tito was very amused. Miguel was less so, but his glare did little to dampen his friend's mood: "Come on, Miguel! Better a pen than a guitar, right?"

The only answer Tito was deigned consisted of pen-on-paper scratching.

"Hey, wanna play soccer afterwards? I saw a ball in the corner."

Miguel glanced at the ball in question. It belonged to all members of the family, technically. However, Abel didn't get the memo and guarded it jealously from 'the bungling kids.'

Miguel huffed. "Not worth the trouble. My cousin is going to throw a tantrum if there's so much as a _smudge of dirt_ on the thing."

Tito raised his brows in utter disbelief. "You're afraid of your _cousin?_ "

And that was a challenge Miguel couldn't help but rise to. "I'm not! I'll show you soccer!"

Tito grinned. "The fight is on, then!"

"You bet!" Miguel dropped the mauled pen into his pencil case, homework forgotten, and picked up the ball. He ignored the pinch of reason telling him that he was playing right into Tito's hands – Abel was out with his friends, and being used was kind of the point of soccer balls.

Besides, playing soccer with Tito promised to be fun. And the best part: His family wasn't going to scold him for it.

The wall by the small tree turned into their designated goal, and Miguel was ready to wipe the floor with his foe. The problem was that he was really more into lucha libre than soccer. Tito was undeniably the better kicker. But Miguel was not going to give in, and he definitely had the upper hand when it came to tackling – or rather, the longer foot. It made them more or less equal, and Miguel and Tito were soon drenched with sweat.

Occasionally, a family member came along to cheer or even join for a minute. (Miguel never knew what a fearsome soccer player his papá Franco could be, not even teaming up on him worked. Tito eventually dubbed his play style _Cane of Ferocity_.) But it was only the two of them when Tito used an especially stormy tackle to break through Miguel's defense. The ball was driven from between Miguel's legs, bounced off a wooden plank leaning against the far wall and flew in a wide arch over the boy's heads. At last, it came to rest on the roof of the storehouse, in front of the huge sign advertising the zapatería.

Miguel stared at the edge where the ball had disappeared, hoping for some miracle that would send it rolling back down. Nothing.

"Abel is going to kill us."

"Not if we get it back before he notices. ¡Ándale!" And with that, Tito grabbed the lowest branch of the tree and pulled himself up. Miguel gritted his teeth; he remembered all too clearly the time he fell from that very tree, and the pain that came with the impact. He feared for the safety of his friend.

"Tito, stop! We can ask tío Berto when he comes back! He has a ladder!"

"Where would be the fun in that?" Tito countered, grinning down from the branch. "Don't worry, you don't have to come."

Miguel gulped. He was _so_ going to regret this, but he couldn't let Tito do this alone. So he pulled himself together and up that tree, carefully testing every barky millimeter for stability.

"Go, Miguel!" Tito cheered from the branch above, but Miguel was in no mood for distractions and waved him off.

"Would you mind climbing on? I don't think that branch can carry both of us."

"You'd be surprised what trees can do! But if it makes you feel better..."

Tito got comfy on a slightly lower branch, at a perfect distance to lean his crossed arms on the first one. Miguel, slightly needled by the nonchalance, took it as the signal to move. He propped himself up on his arms and swung a leg over the branch, but he overestimated the strength he needed – the momentum carried him too far, over the branch and into the void.

But before his yelp could turn into a scream, a hand against his shoulder stopped his involuntary flight and he landed safely on the branch, eyes wide and panting.

"Gotcha!" Tito distracted him from the shock, and Miguel's heartbeat calmed.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Wanna go back down?"

Miguel looked at the ground, then the roof, and shook his head. By now he was level with the latter. It wasn't as high as he'd expected. "No. I've got this."

"That's the spirit! ¡Vámonos!"

Despite his eagerness, Tito stuck around Miguel. It was probably the gesture alone that prevented any more accidents, and with a sigh of relief, the youngest Rivera hopped atop the family storehouse. Pride squared his shoulders, and he turned around to face the tree he just conquered. "That wasn't so bad, actually."

Tito laughed, then his eyes fell on the soccer ball. "Glad you think so! And look what I spied!" He started maneuvering the corrugated tin roof, grinning broadly. When he straightened from picking up the ball, he paused. "¡Qué chido! Never climbed up a roof before. Nice view!"

Miguel half walked, half stumbled across the metal sheets to join his friend. He could see the whole hacienda from up here, plus the street leading to Mariachi Plaza. The family truck was rattling around a corner, loaded with rolls of leather. Rosa rushed out of the workshop, excited to meet her father. At the back of the same, tía Carmen sat with mamá Coco in the sun, sketching what Miguel assumed was yet another baby shoe design.

He smiled affectionately. "Nice view indeed. Ah!" He caught sight of something dangerous. _Very_ dangerous. Miguel grabbed Tito's wrist and hauled him further up the roof.

"Épale! What's up?!"

"Abuelita! If she spots us on the roof, we're done for!"

That was the moment when Miguel heard his name being called. He froze. "Oh no! Nononono! I have to help unload! And if I don't answer, she's going to think I'm chasing radios!"

"Chasing radios?" Tito repeated skeptically, but he didn't ask further. "Then we better hurry, right?" Tito raised the ball above his head, and by the time Miguel realized where he was aiming, it was too late to stop him. The ball smashed into the shoe rack outside the workshop, shaking the whole thing up. Something cracked, and shoes flew in every direction.

Miguel cringed about seven times in a row, every thud like a punch in the guts. He didn't particularly _like_ shoes, but even _they_ didn't deserve such rough treatment!

It worked perfectly as a distraction, though. While Elena was busy assessing the damage, Tito shimmied down the tree, Miguel hot on his heels.

"Was that really necessary?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Ay..."

"Miguel!" Elena yelled from around the corner before appearing in person, hands on her hips and a mad look on her face.

The boy in question donned his best totally-not-innocent smile. "Abuelita..."

"I'm sorry, señora." Tito planted himself in front of Miguel. "I didn't look where I was kicking. I'll clean up. Did anything break?"

Miguel wasn't sure whether to admire or condemn Tito's smoothness. That said, it technically wasn't a lie, right? This whole mess _was_ the result of a misaimed kick. And at least it seemed to pacify Elena.

"You're lucky that there's no damage." (Miguel heaved a sigh of relief.) "But you won't touch any of the shoes! Miguel!"

"Yes, abuelita..." Miguel muttered, less than content with being saddled with repairing the rack. He pushed past Tito, collecting a whispered apology in the process. He relaxed a little, and he almost laughed out his satisfaction when a "And now for you, chamaco!" behind his back tasked Tito with unloading the leather in his stead.

But Miguel wasn't heartless. Once he lifted the dislodged board back onto its pegs and sorted the shoes, he joined his family and friend in storing the leather away.

Next up was surviving Abel's wrath. But one look at Tito laughing with Rosa and running a hand through his disheveled curls, and Miguel knew it was all worth it.

He had a friend. A friend with abuelita's trust.


End file.
